


Death Incarnate

by Corona



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Clearly this list of characters is not long enough, Drabbles, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Murder, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-01 15:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 14,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6526201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corona/pseuds/Corona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the Dark Brotherhood's victims were found. Not all were mourned. But they were found, and even the ones who did not mourn the dead were left to pick up the pieces of the murdering guild's rampage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grelod and Constance

_"Grelod runs this orphanage because she's old, and set in her ways, and doesn't know any other life. The children need love and comfort."_

The room was splattered with blood.

And the children were _cheering_.

Her blood was roaring in her ears and her heart pumped faster than it ever had in her life; her palms were slick with sweat, and her eyes darted in terror about the room. Whoever had done this—were they still here?

"Children!" she cried, trying to bring some semblance of order. They all looked at her, terrible grins on their faces, and Constance had to wonder if there was something just a little wrong with them in that they weren't the least bit scared by what they saw—the opposite. It was a frightful thought.

"Back to your beds, now," she commanded them, and they obediently moved away. "Did any of you see anyone entering or leaving?"

Four 'no's sounded and Constance sighed, resting her hand on her dagger, muscles tensing. Her eyes darted here and there, looking for any possible hiding place a killer might have in this orphanage. They might well have only been after Grelod—but one couldn't be too careful.

Swallowing her rising bile, Constance drew her dagger. "Stay here," she told the children, trying to keep her voice reasonably steady. "If you see anyone—anything—don't hesitate to scream." The children all nodded, and she darted into the hallway.

A careful search turned up nothing. After fifteen minutes, Constance was convinced the killer had left. Still shaking, she sheathed her dagger, and then stumbled back into the storeroom and over to Grelod's body.

Whoever had killed her had done a messy job of it, and a brutal one at that. The blood would take an age to clean from the walls, and Grelod herself was near to mutilated. It would have been kinder to just slit her throat.

But Grelod had never been very kind herself, had she? There was, as much as Constance hated to admit it, some… twisted poetic justice in it.

And the children, they were safe now. They didn't have to worry about Grelod again. Never again.

Why, though? Grelod was old, very old. She would have died in a few years, anyway. Why _this_? Why hasten the ways of nature, and why do it so brutally? Why do it at all? How twisted did a person have to be to do this? Even if Grelod had been an awful woman, how awful in turn did a person have to be to carry out such an action? Just how?

Constance decided she didn't want to know.


	2. The Quintus Children

_"I don't have time for this nonsense. I've got a home to keep and children to feed! Now let me out of here!"_

"Where's our mother?" Aulus demanded as soon as the guard walked in the door. "Have you found our mother?" Little Caelius shifted in his arms, blissfully unaware of the worry of his older siblings but very aware of his brother's raised voice. Aulus winced and tried to master himself.

The other children—Scaurus, Lucius, Iusta, and Rabiria—gazed rather more nervously at the solemn-looking guard, and clung to each other and their eldest brother, who tried to relax his muscles for their sake. Since their mother had vanished four days ago, they'd been in a living nightmare as bad as when their father had left—worse, since their father had walked out. This guard should bring the remedy, but the look on his face suggested otherwise.

The guard sat down with a heavy sigh. "Where is your father?"

"He left," Aulus said. "Is it bad news? Have you found her?"

The man nodded, and the siblings all felt a chill. Even Caelius, who was not yet one year old, felt some of their nervousness. He began to whimper, and Aulus rocked him absentmindedly.

After a pause, he looked up at them, surveyed them all, and then met Aulus' eyes. "She was found in an abandoned shack north of Morthal. I am sorry, but she is dead. It is believed she was murdered."

" _NO!_ " Aulus screamed before he could stop himself. Caelius was crying in the next instant, a strident wail that hurt the ears. The other children all drew close to each other, eyes wide with terror and grief, shivering with the sudden shock.

The guard looked down again, hating himself for having to deliver this news. The oldest didn't look like he was more than thirteen years old, and they were a shabby bunch—evidently poor. He sat in silence, let the first wave of many crash over them before he spoke again.

"Do you have any other family?" he asked quietly.

Aulus shook his head, shifted Caelius so he was holding him in one arm, and then slung his other arm around Iusta. "It's just us. You'll not split us up."

"Of course not," the guard said. "I'm taking you to Honorhall Orphanage. We'll leave as soon as you're ready."

The eldest boy nodded, feeling the grief and fear as acutely as his siblings did, but unable to show it. He had to be strong for them. It was what his mother had always said. Be strong for them; they need you. They needed him more than ever, now that it was just them…

_Mother. I can't be strong without you… Mother, come home! Why can't you come home?_

It was pointless wondering. He felt tears in his eyes and lifted his arm from around Iusta to scrub them furiously away. The others were staring at him, looking as lost as he felt, and he gazed miserably, helplessly, back at them. What did they expect him to do? He was only thirteen. Now he had to be both father and mother to them? But no matter—he loved them. He would be.

"Go pack your things," he said tiredly. His voice cracked.


	3. Beitild and Karl

_"My miners are as dumb as rocks are grey."_

He thought he was in another gods-damned nightmare when he found her. That or he was drunk again. Possibly both.

He tripped over her cold arm, and he'd have hardly noticed were it not for the blood, and the smell of the blood. He'd been drinking, but the very strong, very _fresh_ smell sobered him up instantly. Staggering and righting himself, he looked down.

There wasn't much light left in the day. But there was enough to see.

"Oh, gods! Beitild!" His voice rang out in the desolate silence of the winter night, and across town, he heard the guards come running, torches flickering like stars in the dark. He knelt down next to her.

Beitild was curled up on her side, one hand resting on her arm. In the shoulder of that arm was a ghastly, gaping wound, from which such an extreme quantity of blood had poured that the very snow around her was coated liberally in it, and she herself was covered in it, from her torso to her thighs. One could tell at a glance that it was the blood loss and not the wound itself that killed her.

He staggered back from her, the initial shock turning into the alarm people felt at finding a dead body. Nervously, he put his hand on his dagger and looked around. The guards, seeing her now, also drew their swords as they raced over. They stared down at her for some seconds in silence when they reached her, and one knelt down, turning her over on her side, examining her.

Another addressed him. "Karl, did you see anything? Anyone heading away from here at all?"

Karl shook his head. "No. I just found her in this state. I…" He knew it was a clichéd statement, and what every witness said, but it was no more or less than the truth. Swallowing nervously, he looked back down at Beitild's body.

He felt, and would feel, no grief for her. Very few would. Beitild had never been the most pleasant of women, and she was little liked by any of her workers or the general citizenry, to say nothing of Leigelf and his workers. She'd been a slave-driver, and utterly absurd in her feud with Leigelf. She was hardly bound for Sovngarde.

Wait. Leigelf… _Oh, gods. Leigelf._

Could it be possible? Leigelf and Beitild had hated each other, and gods knew why they had got married in the first place, but did their hatred run so deep that Leigelf was willing to kill her, or have someone kill her? It was quite a leap.

Except, maybe not. They'd both been so fanatical about the 'war'…

Evidently, the guards thought the same. One looked at another and said, "Go get Leigelf and bring him to the barracks for questioning." The second headed off without a word of protest, and the first turned to him and added, "Karl, get out of here."

Karl didn't need twice. Trembling with shock, he took off towards the inn, knowing one thing.

He was not going to sleep tonight.


	4. Narfi and Wilhelm

_"He's harmless. He's been in a state ever since his sister Reyda disappeared over a year ago."_

Time and again, Wilhelm would leave his inn and go out to the other side of the river to give Narfi something filling to eat—and some company.

Narfi had never been the most stable of men, but as he had also never done anything to hurt anyone, Wilhelm felt only pity for him. He'd only got worse after Reyda vanished, and Wilhelm couldn't help but wonder what being told the truth would do to him. He shuddered to think. That was only all the more reason for him to do something for the poor man.

He'd prepared a filling stew for today. It was one Narfi liked. The inn was slow, and Lynly could manage it on her own for an hour or so. With that in mind, he'd slipped out, and now he was preparing to wade through the fairly deep river that was still cold in the early morning light.

With a shudder, Wilhelm held the stew up fairly high, stepped into the river, and began to wade across, grimacing at the cold. More than once, he nearly lost his footing, but he'd been doing this for some years and he knew how to keep his balance. Soon enough, he was across, and heading towards the entrance—if it could be called that—to Narfi's ruin of a house.

"Narfi! Narfi!" he called, as gently as he could. Narfi required the gentle touch and tended to panic when it wasn't given to him. But this morning, there was no response.

Cautiously, with the feel of an intruder, Wilhelm began to move through the ruined house. There was the scent of something in the air, and he couldn't quite identify it, but it gave him a bad feeling. Swallowing nervously, he craned his neck and peered into the little area where Narfi slept.

And saw, at once, the source of the foul smell, and the silence.

The shock ripped through his brain with the speed of an arrow fired from a bow. Stumbling backwards, gasping, Wilhelm hastily put the stew aside and then stepped over the threshold, heading over to Narfi and kneeling down next to him. There was little blood, but what blood there was had trickled down from the open wound in his throat, staining his chest and clothes. He bore an expression of one in a deep sleep. Killed in his sleep? There were worse fates. He did not die screaming.

Perhaps he died peacefully, dreaming of his sister. Perhaps he died happy. Perhaps there was peace for him in what lay beyond.

But still, Wilhelm recoiled, gagging, hand going to his throat. "Gods above, Narfi, no…" The words were spoken softly, and he was only vaguely aware of them, the horror of what he saw before him and the shock of seeing it having driven all else from his mind. He stared, helplessness descending on him; the thought of calling the guards was only at the back of his mind. What else was he to do?

It was some time, indeed, before he managed to stumble away, to leave the house, to head down to the river, to shout for a guard. The shock was settling—the questions were coming. Mainly—

What sort of coward murdered a harmless beggar in cold blood?


	5. Ennodius and Leifur

_"Whatever happened to Ennodius? He just up and left."_

It was around midday when Leifur began to wonder at the number of wolves gathering around at the top of the hill.

Wolves were a daily occurrence, of course, and were usually not a problem, so long as they kept away. But this was a whole pack of wolves, and that could definitely be a problem. Taking a deep breath, Leifur looked away and caught Kodrir's eye. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder.

"Do you think we should…?"

Kodrir, for once, had nothing sarcastic to say. "Might be wise," he agreed, eyeing the wolf pack with equal suspicion. The two men both laid down their axes, lifted their bows from their backs, quickly strung them, and then headed off up the hill.

They went in silence, and they went carefully. They had no intention of killing the wolves; they just wanted to see what had attracted them. The bows were merely a precaution. As they went, it became increasingly clear why the wolves were gathering: there was a very distinctive smell of blood in the air, which meant food for the wolves.

They'd have turned back had the wolves not been gathering around a tent.

"Shit," Kodrir muttered. "Who was in _that_?"

They glanced at each other and made their decision without words. Dropping into a crouch, they crept slowly around, heading just into the forest line, and cutting straight across until they were directly opposite the tent. From the right angle, they might see inside it.

Leifur found that angle. He took a few cautious steps forward, then another few, and then he was close enough to see.

" _Holy—_ "

His voice pierced the silence, and the wolves all turned to look at him; briefly regaining his senses, Leifur stumbled back into the forest line. He only barely felt Kodrir grab his shoulder.

"Who was—?"

Leifur had to swallow his rising bile and resist the urge to vomit. He whispered, his voice cracking and shaking, "Ennodius. It was _Ennodius_ , Kodrir. He's been here all this time! And—"

"No!" Kodrir stared, stunned, at the tent. "And those wolves are just going to—"

"Yeah!"

"What in the fuck did him in?" his companion murmured. He'd never much liked Ennodius, but even he was shocked. Leifur, meanwhile, was trembling with something like grief. Ennodius' disappearance had hurt him; he'd been a good friend. So for him to turn up like _this_ …

"Nothing animal-made," he said, voice still shaking. His implication hung heavy in the air, and they stared in silence until they heard a ghastly ripping sound.

"Fuck! They're going to—no. _No._ I'm not staying for that!" Kodrir took off, uncaring of the noise he made. Leifur hesitated. He wanted to protest, say Ennodius deserved better—but there was no point. The wolves were hungry. He drew a deep breath, and then took off after him.


	6. The Shatter-Shields

_"My father says we need to just get on with our lives. Like it's that easy."_

There was no dignity, absolutely none, in the face of the death of your child.

There was even less when it was your second child dead, less still when it was only your remaining child, and less still again when she, too, was murdered.

Tova was screaming. There were no words in her screams: it was just an endless, persistent wail that both rent the heart and clawed at the eardrums. No such wail he had ever thought he would hear from his wife's lips, and no such scream he had ever heard even over Friga.

She had screamed for Friga, yes. But they had still had Nilsine then.

Now it was Nilsine. And they had no more children left. And both their girls had been murdered.

"Torbjorn!" she cried, a word finally breaking through her wails. " _Torbjorn!_ "

He said nothing. What was there to say? And even if he had had anything to say, he would not have been able to say it; his throat was closed and so he was silent in renewed, doubled grief. He said nothing, but came to her side and put his arms around her and drew her to him. She buried her face in his chest and clutched his cloak and sobbed and screamed uncontrollably, and he felt the tears pouring down his face, but did nothing to wipe them away. In this moment, they were each other's only solace, and they were little solace at all. Every now and then, they would look—look at her, look at Nilsine, look at her cold, dead body—and if they were anywhere near calming, they would have to start all over again.

It was not the serial killer, not the Butcher. He had been brought to justice. It was not Alain Dufont; he was dead. Word had got back to Windhelm just hours before—well.

So who in Oblivion was it? Would they ever know? Would they ever get justice for Nilsine as they had done for Friga?

 _Why_ , he wondered, _of all the murders that happened here after the Butcher was stopped—why did the first have to be our only remaining child? Why?!_

There was no answer. There should be an answer, but he could not find any, and he doubted anyone could provide it to him. Nor could he find an answer as to why these things kept happening to their family. What had they done to deserve such punishment? _Both_ their daughters murdered, the family war hammer stolen, betrayed by Muiri… Gods, what had they done to deserve this?

"Torbjorn," Tova gasped. He looked down at her, and she up at him. She was so beautiful normally, but her face now was red and blotchy. He stroked her cheek, for want of anything else to do, for not knowing what else he _could_ do. "Torbjorn. What are we going to do?"

He stared at her, helplessly. What could they do? They could hardly just get on with their lives now. It was possible after Friga, but not… not now. Not now. There was nothing now. No life to get on with. He shook his head, and that was answer enough for her. He looked into her eyes.

And he saw in them depths of grief and despair that, despite everything, chilled him to the bone.


	7. Lurbuk and Jonna

_"Lurbuk? Fancies himself a bard. He pays, so I let him stay. If I had any customers, I'd worry that he'd be annoying them, but, well, look around."_

She had once said to Lurbuk that if the townsfolk ever 'came around' to him, he'd never be seen or heard from again.

She had meant it in seriousness, but all the same, she had never really wanted him to _die_ , still less to be _murdered_. And under her own roof, no less!

The townspeople in the inn were white-faced and grim as the guards carefully inspected Lurbuk's room. Hroggar, in particular, was trembling and hugging himself, head bent, shoulders hunched. Thonnir, seeing him in this state, came over and put an arm around him; Hroggar seemed to lean into his touch, but took little, if any, comfort from it. Such things as this always left the poor man shaken and close to panic, after what had happened to his wife and daughter.

The guards now exited, carefully carrying Lurbuk's body. Whoever had killed him had made a botched job of it; his throat was messily slit and there was a gaping wound over his heart. Jonna could not tell which had killed him. As she had woken up this morning to the stench of blood and death in the air, she could only presume—and hope—he had been killed in his sleep.

A third guard came out after the other two and opened the inn door for them. They exited, and then the third removed his helmet and looked at Jonna and the others. "There's not much we can say about it right now," he said simply. "The lock looks like it's been picked, so the killing probably happened early this morning or late last night, when the inn was shut. Miss Jonna, I'm sure you'll get a locksmith in to fix it. Otherwise, the killer doesn't seem to be lurking anywhere around town. I'd advise you to be on your guard, regardless."

"What's the Jarl going to do about it?" Jorgen piped up.

Aslfur sighed. "What in Oblivion do you _want_ her to do about it?" he snapped. "Murders happen in every town! And the Jarls of the biggest cities don't get involved in most of them, let me tell you! There is _nothing_ Idgrod can do since the killer appears to have left town! That'll be the case unless he or she comes back!"

"The steward _is_ right, you know," the guard said. "As I said, be on your guard, and come straight to us if you catch anything suspicious." With that, he also left.

The townspeople were silent, but some were giving her some wary looks. Jonna glared at them, knowing what they were thinking. Falion was indeed a necromancer, but would it ever get through these Nords' thick skulls that he was protecting the town, not harming it? Apparently not. She exhaled sharply through her nose and looked away. Morthal had its good points, but gods, it was an intolerant little town.

No matter. There had been _another_ murder, and while it didn't seem to be down to vampires, and while it was somebody nobody had ever liked, it was certain everyone was going to be on edge again for weeks. She wondered if they would ever catch a break.

It might have been Lurbuk—but when all was said and done, it wasn't a relief. Or at all funny.


	8. Hern and Hert

_"Ah, so the Brotherhood has come for old Hern, has it? Well then, let us meet as equals."_

She was returning from a hunting trip.

She'd had her fill of blood tonight, perhaps even a drop overmuch. It was hard to stop, at times, when she started. But no matter, she was sated now. Hern would be going on his tomorrow; the stubborn old fool always insisted on holding out as long as he could. In that respect, it was just as well they didn't get many people passing that way. She didn't want him to blow their cover. It was fragile enough already.

More blood. She could smell it most distinctly. Her nose flared and her throat began to ache, though she was sated. Holding her breath, presuming Hern _had_ lost control, she carefully crept towards the mill.

"Hern! Hern!" she called. There was no response.

She called out again, but still nothing. Maybe he was inside. He wouldn't well hear her from behind a stone wall—

Then she saw, and she stopped in her tracks.

No, it wasn't the blood of any human or animal that coated the ground. It was—it was _Hern's_.

And Hern—there he was. Slumped against the front wall of their cabin, lower abdomen torn open from one end to another, and terribly wounded in a number of other places. Those wounds were no concern—the one to his abdomen _was_.

No, more than a concern: it was fatal. The blood was Hern's, and the stench in the air came from his body. He was… Oh, gods.

Her husband, her _husband_ , who had willingly joined her in eternity after she had been changed, who had stood by her side for so many decades and was meant to continue to do so until the end of time's long march… he was dead. He was _dead_.

There was no more thirst. No more of anything, really. Unaware of herself, unaware of whatever she might be saying, she ran to his side and pulled him down and into her arms. She examined him then, gasping for shallow breath, looked upon him without seeing.

Looked upon in greater detail, but did not really see, his wounds, wounds inflicted by a weapon that was dangerous to their kind. Looked upon the burns that attended these wounds, burns from something holy. Looked upon the peace in his face that she had not seen since before they both changed. Looked upon them all, but saw nothing.

There was only disbelief, and denial, and then horror, a small fraction of the full realisation of what had just happened: Hern was dead and she… she was alone.

There was loneliness, then, before anything else. Alone and lonely, no companion, no husband to give pleasure and _meaning_ to her endless days. Eternity stretched out before her, and it had seemed massive before, but now it seemed huge beyond comprehension; she was but one small speck on the currents of time, and she was _alone_.

She wanted to scream. But she couldn't find the means to.


	9. Deekus

_"What? Why? I don't understand… I have done nothing to wrong you. Please, mercy!"_

If an Argonian could not die by the Hist, then it might well be that their soul was lost forever.

None knew. It was much speculated about and debated in Argonian society, of course. There was simply no way of knowing what happened to those unfortunate Argonians who could not return to the Hist before they died. It was, perhaps, possible that their souls did indeed get there, but if they did, none ever saw them.

If they did not, there was no worse fate than the one they faced. Even Argonians who had committed the vilest crimes and been expelled from the country and forbidden to return were permitted to come back when their death was imminent—though this, needless to say, had been abused in the past. The idea of a soul being lost was as anathema to the Argonians as it was to the humans and the elves and for much the same reason.

So when Taleen-Jul came across the body of an Argonian clad in hide armour near the wreck of Hela's Folly, he by necessity felt a terrible pang in his heart.

There was nobody else around, but the man had clearly been killed, and certainly not by animals. The wounds on his arms and his chest attested to that; they were too precise for animals. His armour had been ripped to shreds; an inevitability when it was made of hide. He lay, a twisted, broken, and pitiable figure, just by the shore.

Taleen-Jul was only young and not six months out of Black Marsh. He had seen death before, but he was not quite inured to it yet. He was especially not inured to what looked like murder. He shuddered and swallowed thickly as he knelt down next to his deceased egg-brother, feeling a shiver run up his spine as he placed his hand on his deathly cold skin and turned him on to his back. His facial expression could not be read, but he could only imagine that he must have died in terror and pain. Who had done this? Why had they done this?

Those were not the most important questions. Taleen-Jul gave himself a shake.

What was his name? Where had he come from? Into which tribe was he born? Who was his family? Who were his companions? Did he even have companions or family? What had he been doing in Skyrim? Had he been here for the same purpose as Taleen-Jul—adventuring—or something rather different, or something more sinister?

Who had he been?

That was the pertinent question. Who had he been? What sort of person was he to remember, should he think of this man again?

There were no answers, and that was the worst part.

Because there were no answers, and because this man had not died by the Hist, he would not be remembered. His soul might well be lost forever, a fate only a few deserved. Taleen-Jul felt terrible just at the very thought of it. He wondered if there was something he might have done, had he come a day or so earlier. But there was no way to know.

"Egg-brother," he said quietly, "I am sorry this has happened to you." It was all he could say.


	10. The Khajiit Caravan

_"May you walk on warm sands."_

Atahbah had taken too much moon sugar.

"By _Alkosh_ ," Khayla growled as she tried desperately to restrain the euphoric, shaking, and _violent_ Atahbah. Her head snapped up. "Ri'saad! Ma'randru-jo! Hurry!"

"We're trying!" Ri'saad shouted from across the camp, where he and Ma'randru-jo were brewing potions as fast as they could. The stress was clear in his voice. "Give us some time!"

Khayla growled again and continued to struggle with Atahbah. There was one thought on everyone's minds: after Atahbah was calmed down and the effects had worn off, they would have to reduce their moon sugar stock. Their profits would suffer, but it was not worth these fits. Atahbah had always been strangely susceptible to the more negative side-effects of moon sugar for a Khajiit. It was well she had never tried skooma.

It seemed an eternity, but finally, Ma'randru-jo and Ri'saad had some potions ready. They were just starting to bottle them when there came the sound of footsteps on the grass and then the sound of an arrow being fired and—

The arrow pierced Ma'randru-jo's throat before they could react. There was one ghastly choking noise, and then he slumped on to the alchemy table and then to the ground.

There was dead silence in the camp, broken only by the sound of feet running quickly away from the scene.

The sheer suddenness of what had just happened replaced any other thought, even that of restraining and calming Atahbah, who continued to struggle against a completely frozen Khayla. She and Ri'saad stared in silent horror at Ma'randru-jo's body, lying so horribly still and quiet next to the alchemy table. Mere seconds before, he had been _alive_. Now he was not. Now…

They could not even go after whoever it was who had done this. Atahbah's euphoria was yet to wear off. Khayla found her actions becoming mechanical, rote; she acted by instinct while her mind seemed to freeze and fix into place. Ri'saad was little better. He had spilt his potions, too, but he had not noticed. His eyes were fixed on the body of his colleague and friend.

And they stayed fixed there, frozen, shock and terror and the first inklings of grief bleeding into his muscles and locking them quite firmly in place. He was quite paralysed. He could not have moved to prevent his own death, his own murder.

Other thoughts would trickle in gradually, about how to get his body home, and what in Oblivion they were to do now, and how Atahbah would deal with this when she came out of her fit, and _dear Jode and Jone_ but why had this happened?! Why Ma'randru-jo? What had he done that deserved so senseless and _sudden_ a death, so far from their homeland? Who would do this? What despicable _coward_ would _do_ this?

But that was in the near future. This was now. And now, he was paralysed.

Now, with Ma'randru-jo's body on one side and a violent, moon sugar-addled Atahbah on the other, Ri'saad was paralysed.


	11. Anoriath and Elrindir

_"After such a memorable adventure, we knew we had the name for our shop."_

_"… it was good to hear from you boys again. I hope when I come here that I find Skyrim is as fine a country as you have said. I'm sure it will be. Love, Father."_

Elrindir smiled as he laid the letter aside. He and Anoriath had both been hoping their father might come to visit them at some point. Now it seemed he would. He'd be here in about a month; it seemed too long a time away. Elrindir shook his head. That was a ridiculous notion.

He looked around the Drunken Huntsman. It was late in the afternoon and the place was slow; he supposed he could afford to step out for a few minutes to hand the letter to Anoriath. He smiled fondly, knowing what Anoriath's sole topic of conversation would be for the next month.

Before he could move out from behind the counter, the door opened, and in stepped a guard. He headed straight for him, walking slowly and stiffly. "Mr Elrindir? I need you to come with me," he said at once. He was a young guard, it was plain, and his voice was trembling.

"What's happened?" he asked, frowning. He could not see the guard's face, but he shook his head. Feeling dread form in his stomach, he followed the guard outside, and then up the street.

People were lingering near the stores in the marketplace, and looking at them, Elrindir saw only terror and shock on their faces, even Nazeem's. Near the stalls was a large group of guards with their swords drawn. "Back! Get back!" one of them shouted. But—where was Anoriath?

"Let Elrindir through!" the guard with him yelled to his comrades. They looked at him, then at each other, and quietly moved. He realised that they had been gathering around Anoriath's stall, and his blood turned to ice in his veins. He moved, quickly; broke away from the guard and headed straight for his brother's stall, and then craned his head a little and—

No. _No._ No, this couldn't be.

But it was. It was his brother whom the guards had gathered around, and it was his brother who lay slumped next to his stall, an arrow sticking out of his throat. His brother, _it was his brother._

_"ANORIATH!"_

In that instant, he lost all sense of where he was. All sense of dignity. All sense of… everything. He stepped over to his side of the stall, and knelt, and he grabbed Anoriath and pulled him into his lap, and oh gods but he could _feel_ him cooling, and he was so limp, so awfully limp… His brother, his little brother, who he'd never been apart from before, who hadn't even reached his first century… and here he was. Here he was, and he was _dead_.

He was shaking him; he was dimly aware of that. He was screaming; he was dimly aware of that. Somebody was trying to restrain him; he was dimly aware of that. He was dimly aware of everything, everything but this. Anoriath was dead, _murdered_. His little brother… Somebody had shot his little brother like he used to shoot his prey, and he'd not been there to stop them, to _save him_. He'd not been there… Then one thing, just one, broke through the haze of grief and despair and horror clouding his mind, and he found himself howling.

_What was he going to tell their father?_


	12. Vittoria Vici and Asgeir Snow-Shod

_"Vittoria's a good woman. Any man should be so lucky."_

The screams were still ringing in his ears.

He groaned and smacked his forehead again and again as if he could drive the screams out just by that. But they kept coming, coming, coming… coming…

He let out a short, sharp yell, and buried his face in his hands. He felt sick. There was no escape, and there could be no escape. Even when the shock wore off, there would be no escape.

There would never be any escape, would there?

From outside, he heard voices. "Asgeir…" That was his father. Damn him.

"Don't come in here," he growled. His voice cracked. "Don't! Just leave me alone!" It was such a childish statement, but his father was the last man he wanted to see right now.

" _Asgeir!_ " His father's tone was shorter now, angrier. Asgeir felt his blood boiling in turn. Was his father so blinded by hatred that he couldn't comprehend he might want some space to grieve?

"LEAVE!" he yelled, more loudly than his parents had ever heard from him before. " _Leave me alone, Father!_ I _know_ what you're going to say! I don't want to hear it! _Leave!_ "

His father tried speaking again, but this time, the Priest of Arkay, Styrr, cut across him, speaking in a curt and hard tone. "How dare you. Your _son_ has just lost his wife at his own _wedding_ , and you try to come in here and spout your anti-Imperial rhetoric when he doesn't want to see you? Leave now, before I call the guard to _throw_ you out!"

Now his father got the hint. Asgeir heard a door slamming. He sighed.

His _wife_. He looked across at her body, still in her wedding dress, the hole where the arrow had punched through into her heart yet to be repaired, and he bitterly wondered if she could even be called that. How long had they been married? An hour? Half an hour? Not even half the day. He felt a scream rising in his throat, and barely swallowed it. The image flashed behind his eyes yet again, the sounds rang in his ears, and he buried his face in his hands once more.

They'd been so happy. Just before the ceremony, not even his father's anger and his mother's uncertainty had been able to wipe the smile off his face. He'd gone through with said ceremony with the biggest and undoubtedly stupidest grin he'd ever worn, the more so because Vittoria had been smiling, too, and that was all he had wanted to see. When the binding words had been spoken, he'd felt quite delirious, quite dizzy, with joy, and if the way Vittoria had acted was any indication, she'd felt much the same. It wasn't a traditional Nord ceremony, no, but he _had_ enjoyed it, as much as he had enjoyed the reception—or, well, the _start_ of the reception.

They'd both been so happy. It wasn't supposed to be a marriage of love, but, well… He had felt it for her. He hoped she had felt it for him, too. She must have. She was so happy… _Did I ever say it to her?_ He didn't have to think long to know the answer. No, he had not. And now he never could. His stomach churned, and he felt vomit rising in his throat.

He barely made it to the basin in time before he threw up, tears running down his face at the same time.


	13. Agnis

_"I can't even keep track of all the people who have been in and out of this fort. They come, they go.  I barely notice."_

Marcus had not yet been two months a soldier in the Legion. He was still getting used to death.

Would he ever get used to it? That was what every Auxiliary thought. He knew he would eventually; it just took time. He'd known that his theoretical lessons about it, received from his father, would only be of some help when the time came, but he'd still somewhat naïvely expected them to be more help than they had actually been thus far. As it was, the sight of a dead body still made him feel ill, and he was always left to wonder who the body had been.

There had been a lot of dead bodies at the Battle of Whiterun. There had been only marginally fewer when they had taken this fort over.

The stench of death was branded into the 16-year-old's brain now. Immutably, he felt. He was sure he would know it anywhere. As much as he wanted to, he knew he mustn't forget it. He would have to get used to it in time, and he knew he would. He wondered if that was a good thing.

That very same stench, but in a much weaker form, hit him the moment he walked into the kitchen area. Marcus froze, his hand going to his nose by instinct. What in Oblivion—someone had died. His soldier's instincts kicked in the next instant, and he drew his sword. Taking a calming breath, Marcus cautiously advanced in the direction of the stench, breathing through his mouth. He looked carefully around, keeping half an eye on his surroundings; if there was an enemy in the fort, then he'd be ready in case he got jumped. Well, somewhat ready.

He took several more steps forward, looking up and down and to his sides, and when he looked down again, he saw the source. Not just the source, but also the very same woman he'd been sent to find in the first place.

_What the—Agnis?!_

It was none other but Agnis. The servant lay practically spread-eagled on the floor. It took Marcus some seconds before he saw the blood leaking out from under her head, and then he saw the hole in her forehead, and the pieces automatically put themselves together. Somebody had stabbed the woman in the back of the head and driven the blade in far enough to get it out through the other side.

Marcus' stomach churned, but he forced it to settle. He was unsure whether he should try to disconnect or not: Agnis had not been an enemy, but she had not been an ally. She'd have served the Stormcloaks as happily as she served the Legion. Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, Marcus now recalled protocol. There had been a murder. Regulations dictated that the fort go on lockdown while the more senior soldiers looked for the killer. Marcus had always had a good memory for these things.

Trembling, Marcus stared a little longer at the corpse on the ground, vaguely wondering who she had been and what she had seen, and then he ran. He had to find the fort commander.


	14. Maluril Ferano

_"Yes… quite. But if that power could be harnessed. Controlled. The possibilities would be… But… who exactly are you? And why are you in here?"_

Ingemarr despised the Dwarven ruins.

He'd had more than his fair share of bad experiences with them. Every time he'd entered one of these ruins, something bad had happened, whether it was to him or his companions. He'd been captured by Falmer once, years ago, and still had the scars from that. Another time, he'd nearly been eaten by a chaurus reaper. Still a third time, he'd got several of his ribs crushed when he'd run into a Dwarven Centurion. And those were only a small handful of occasions.

So when Sigrun had told him to go looking for Maluril, much deeper in the ruins of Mzinchaleft than he normally was, he'd almost considered punching her lights out. Then some of the others had joined in, and Ingemarr had given in. The Falmer and chaurus weren't up here, and they'd taken care of the animunculi weeks ago. If he kept his wits about him, he'd be safe. _Relatively_ safe.

His footsteps echoed too loudly in the empty corridors as he went on. Every shadow seemed ominous, every strange noise a portent of doom. His hand gripped his war hammer tightly, prepared to draw it at the first sign of real danger. His eyes darted from side to side, and though the air was cold, he felt sweat forming on his palms. He swallowed nervously. Some bandit he was, the others would say, to be so afraid, but there was nothing illogical about fear in this place.

It seemed a veritable era before he finally reached the door to Maluril's room. Swallowing again, he lifted his hand and knocked, as loudly as he could, on the door. The sound itself made him jump and look around quickly, but he knew it was a necessary evil. When there was no response, Ingemarr decided not to faff around. He pulled the key Sigrun had given him from his pocket, found the lock, and stuck the key in.

It was a fiddly job; Dwarven locks were not like human locks. But eventually, he managed to unlock the door and get it open. Muscles relaxing, he stumbled inside and called Maluril's name.

The very next instant, he saw him slumped over his bed, hand inches from his staff, robes coated liberally in his own blood. He felt his face turning pale, and his blood froze in his veins.

Maluril was dead, and that was obvious. But who had killed him? Ingemarr looked about frantically, peering out into the corridor, heart pounding in his chest as he drew his war hammer. Was it one of the others? A Falmer? An animunculus? Or—gods help them—somebody who was no longer here? Who had managed to sneak in and out without being noticed?

What were they to do now?

The only thought in his mind was to go back and warn the others. Sheathing his war hammer, Ingemarr took off at a run, uncaring of anything that might try to stop him. He ran, and he ran, and it didn't seem long at all before he was back with the others, panting.

They stared, bewildered, but he cared nothing about that. He only gasped, "Maluril's dead."

And the group descended into complete confusion.


	15. Helvard and Siddgeir

_"I protect the Jarl, whoever that might be."_

"Where in Oblivion is Helvard?" Siddgeir muttered aloud. He caught the eye of one of the servants. "Girl! Go up to Helvard's room and find out what's taking him so long," he ordered. The servant nodded and quickly darted to and up the steps leading to Helvard's room. He watched her go and then turned his eye to Legate Skulnar, who was emerging from the war room.

"I've had a message from Legate Fasendil in the Rift," the man said.

"Yes, what is it?"

Legate Skulnar looked pleased. "He says forces are arriving from Solitude and they're making ready to attack Riften. If the Legion should gain Riften, Falkreath Hold will be secure from all sides. We may be able to send more of our troops out to contribute to the war effort."

Siddgeir nodded, somewhat disinterestedly. Matters of war were never in his purview; Nenya could handle them as she handled everything else.

The Legate was opening his mouth to speak again when from Helvard's room there came a terrible shriek.

The young Jarl jumped and then rose from his throne, and the Legate drew his sword. "What has happened in there?" he shouted. Siddgeir's hand went to his dagger.

The servant girl emerged. Even from here, Siddgeir could see the pallor of her face, the terror in it. "My lord!" she cried. "Come up here! Helvard is dead!"

Siddgeir was not a man accustomed to feeling unselfish emotions. He had grieved but little for his parents and was hardly attached to anyone in his court, though he had known most of them since he was born. He was even less attached to his uncles, Stormcloak sympathisers as they were. Most of his attachment to people was based on what they could get him and how advantageous the relationship might be—for him, of course. For all the rest, he maintained a very deliberate disconnection. Jarls weren't supposed to get attached to people, or at least that was what he thought.

But even Siddgeir was not an entirely heartless man. The servant's words were rather like a spike of ice in his chest, painful when they pierced him, and quickly disseminating throughout his body, to turn him cold and almost root him to the spot. From somewhere, he found the ability to move, heading up the stairs after the Legate. Nenya was just behind him. When they reached the landing, the servant girl moved aside, and the three of them spilt into Helvard's room.

 _Cowardice_ , was his first thought when he saw the body. Helvard lay under the covers of his bed. The covers and the floor were stained with his blood, which had come from a wound to his throat. He had been killed in his sleep, evidently. _Who kills a man in his sleep rather than taking him in a fair fight? A common murderer._ There was silence.

Then he said, quietly, shakily, "Legate Skulnar… get the guards." What else could they do?


	16. Safia and Dorian

_"I've only been a part of the_ Red Wave _'s crew for a few weeks, but I've already learned to stay out of Captain Safia's way."_

He'd been sent to find the Captain.

For all her iron grip over the crew, Safia at least tried to spend some of her time with all of them, even the deckhands. She knew a crew would be more loyal to their captain if they were more personable and connected with them, and so she'd made a point of spending at least a little time with hers. Dorian was still intimidated by her, but it was a nice move, and it had made her a little less scary to him. Just a little. He'd never served under a captain like Safia before.

So for Safia to not show up to dinner with the rest of the crew was unusual, very unusual. Sabine Nytte, the first mate, had said Safia had said nothing to her about not being able to attend dinner tonight, and nobody could think up any plausible explanation. They'd waited a good quarter of an hour before sending Dorian.

Wherever he found her, Dorian seriously hoped that she wasn't in too bad a mood. Getting on the wrong end of her temper was the last thing he wanted. If he did that, he might as well do Safia a favour and cut his own throat.

With a sigh, Dorian climbed the ladder up to the next level, the highest below the deck. If Captain Safia wasn't here, then Oblivion knew where she was. He was beginning to feel real alarm now—it simply wasn't like the Captain to vanish like this. He began to head down in the direction of the door leading up to the deck, trying to keep himself calm. Maybe she was conducting an emergency deal with someone. Yes, that seemed logi—

"Oh, GODS!"

Dorian's legs gave out underneath him. He slumped to the floor, to his hands and knees, heart pounding like a drum in his chest, and stared in horror at what he saw before him. It was the Captain—but oh, gods, she was—she was dead.

Captain Safia _dead_? Dorian's blood chilled. What did that mean for them now? More to the point, who in Oblivion had the nerve and the strength to kill _Safia_? Was it, perhaps, a sneak attack? That seemed the only way it could have happened because Safia was the best fighter he'd ever seen and he couldn't conceive of anyone who could successfully take her down in a fair fight. But who—and where were they—and _why_?

Gasping, breathing very shallowly and quickly, Dorian staggered back to his feet. He then took off at a run, flying back to the ladder and down it and continuing on to the mess hall. He hadn't looked too closely at Safia—but he had seen enough. When he entered, the others immediately looked at him, and he took a minute to catch his breath before saying, "She's up on the level above. Near the door to the deck. She's _dead_."

There was uproar. A commotion. He barely heard it. Staggering to his seat, Dorian realised one thing, and his mouth twisted in a grimace.

This was a pirate ship. There was going to be the power struggle to end all power struggles.


	17. Gaius Maro and Commander Maro

_"I understand. But you're being paranoid. I'm inspecting security, not charging off into battle. There's not a lot that can go wrong."_

Reality had been so different but a split second before.

Reality would not penetrate. Reality could not penetrate.

There was nothing in the world but the two of them, and the stone slab on which Gaius lay. He staggered over to him, sat down next to him, as he would when Gaius was small and lying in bed and he wanted him at his side. He slid one hand under his head and around his shoulder, rested the other on his chest. There was blood there. He did not feel it.

"Gaius," he murmured. His voice was steady and gentle, warmly exasperated. "Gaius, boy, come on, wake up. _Gaius._ " He shook him a little, but very carefully, and smiled down at him. Gaius looked peaceful. He wanted to laugh; he hadn't shaken his son awake in over a decade, had never imagined he would have to shake him awake as a grown man.

But he couldn't laugh. Reality stopped him. Reality could not yet penetrate, but it was trying.

"Gaius," he said again, a little more insistently. "Son. You have to wake up. I know you like your sleep, but you have to wake up now. There's work to be done." He shook him again, more forcefully. Gaius did not respond, but he moved like a ragdoll, terribly limp. Too limp. He was cold, too, but then this hall was also cold. That was it.

Reality began to penetrate.

" _Gaius_ ," he hissed. There was an edge of suddenly hysterical desperation in his voice, and he shook him for the third time. Nothing. "Gaius! Boy, wake _up_. That's an _order_. Gaius. _Son._ Please." He must, by necessity, wake up. The other possibility was simply unthinkable. Impossible.

But it was reality. Reality was breaking through.

"Gaius!" His voice had risen. His grip tightened on his son, and he bent down. "Gaius, _wake up_ , dammit! Wake up! Look at me! _Look at me!_ Just—do something! _GAIUS!_ " His voice rose again, to a shout, and he shook his son with something like violence. Still nothing. He began to feel the blood, began to feel how cold he truly was, began to feel his utter stillness. As he felt, reality broke through with greater speed.

He held it off by force of will, but he could not hold it all off. There was terror now, a terror he'd never known. He lifted Gaius up, carefully, like he was the most precious thing in all the world; moved him so that he was lying in his arms, and there he cradled him, resting his head in the crook of his elbow, against his chest. It reminded him of when Gaius was a baby. When he held him, Gaius would always snuggle into him and make little contented noises and suck his thumb in the most adorable manner. He would look up at him, and that look alone would draw a smile from him no matter his mood.

Now there was no look. His eyes were closed. There was nothing.

"Gaius," he murmured again. "Don't you _dare_. Stay with me, my son, _stay with me!_ " His voice had rapidly become hysterical again. " _Don't you dare leave me!_ Just look at me, Gaius, open your eyes and _just look at me!_ Gaius, you can't do this! You're twenty-four! _Don't do this!_ Don't leave me—don't—please _don't leave me_ —" There were tears starting, but he wouldn't wipe them away; Gaius needed his arms around him. If he kept him so close, cradled him as he'd done when he was so small—if, if, _if_ —he had to. He just _had to_.

But not. Reality broke through, rather like water bursting from a pipe.

And there were no words. Not for a long time. Not from his mouth, not in his mind. No words, no thoughts, nothing but the worst realisation in the world, and then shattering, as the world— _his_ world—came apart and collapsed underneath him.

But his world had not come apart. His world lay in his arms. His world—all that he was living for—the thing he loved best—and here… here he was.

_Here he was._

He cradled him the way he had cradled him when he was born, the first time he ever saw him. He had been such a tiny thing then. Dark-skinned, like his mother, with deep brown eyes, so deep they were near black. His little hand had flailed in the air as his mother played with him and cooed over him, and he had cooed at her in turn, so happy and content for a newborn baby. He'd been bald, but the rest of his body had been covered in fine, soft hair. Caesennia had smiled at him through her exhaustion, told the both of them how beautiful he was, and then passed him on to him. His wife had always been a fine judge of these things.

Gaius had almost started to cry when he was passed to him, but he had calmed quickly enough. In that very instant, he was spellbound, entranced by the little being in his arms. He had looked up at him, eyes so wide and so innocent. He had settled him in one arm and then stroked him with a finger of his other hand; Gaius had snatched it, and his little fingers had just fit around it. He had then sucked at it quite contentedly, and he and Caesennia had laughed. He'd let go long enough to flail his hand again and to coo, and he'd never heard a sound so delightful since.

That was then. This was now.

He cradled him as he had when he was born. He cradled him as he had when he was a baby. He cradled him like he was so fragile, so precious, even if no more harm could come to him now. He cradled him, with the utmost gentleness, and he hoped in vain that the gods would provide a miracle, that Arkay might break his laws. Just for him. Just for his little boy, his beautiful little boy, his _too young_ little boy. Just for them.

Nothing was forthcoming.

Reality broke through in its entirety, and all the strength and hope went out of him. His bones seemed to disappear; his every muscle slumped and his breath came shallowly as he pulled Gaius up a little more so that his head was resting on his shoulder. He held him tight: a final, bitter embrace. The one embrace a father should never share with his son.

"You _said_ you'd be fine," he snarled, quietly. "You _promised me_ , Gaius! You said nothing could go wrong! You said you'd come back to me! You _said!_ Why haven't you? Why… haven't… you?" His voice faltered pathetically, then died away. His hand crept up to his neck, and he pulled him tight against him, so tight, and he rested his head on top of Gaius', and his breath was shuddering and strangled and there were tears leaking down his face still, and there was nothing outside of them. Nothing at all.

He looked down, removed Gaius' helmet, buried his face in his hair. He spoke into it; his voice was muffled. "Why… why didn't I send someone with you?" If he'd just had the good sense to _send someone else_ …

There was no one to provide the answers.

There was no one at all. There was nothing at all. Just them, and grief and guilt beyond anything he'd ever experienced for anyone else. Just agony that looked to tear him apart from the inside. Just a new, horrible reality. All else was gone. It didn't matter anymore.

He had no more words to speak. He cradled his child, his only child, his dead child; he hugged him close to his chest, and he nuzzled his hair and cried softly into it, as he hadn't cried over anyone since Caesennia. He could do nothing else but let it all go.

Reality had been so different but a split second before.


	18. Anton Virane and Voada

_"What have I done for the gods to take me so far from my beloved Daggerfall?"_

Her brother was raising Oblivion, and the guards were drawing the swords and heading towards the kitchens. "Shor's bones, what is it _now_?" she heard one of them mutter.

She followed after them.

She wasn't yet through the entrance when somebody yelled, "By the gods! Anton Virane is dead!"

She stopped where she stood, blood running cold, gooseflesh rising on her skin. Anton Virane dead? She could hardly believe it. He'd been a man in his prime, as healthy as any horse; what had happened to cut his life so short? She figured she already knew the answer—this was Markarth, after all—but even so…

There was a long pause. Voada crept hesitantly towards the entrance and peered in. Anton's body was surrounded by guards, but she was able to catch the eye of her brother, who immediately came to her side. He hated Anton—and she liked him little better—but he was clearly shaken and pale. Hatred didn't necessarily mean you wanted a man dead, after all.

Voada put a hand on his shoulder, and they watched in solemn silence as the guards examined Anton. They were muttering things to themselves that the siblings couldn't quite catch, but Voada could guess what they were saying when one of them turned away, and groaned, "Not another one! Haven't there been enough these last couple of months?"

Rodnach pulled back as if trying to retreat, undetected, into the shadows. Voada knew what he was thinking, and she also knew that his line of thinking was not entirely unjustified. The two of them were the only ones in the kitchens alongside Anton on a regular basis; it was natural that some degree of suspicion should fall on them. That she could understand.

But, well, this was _Markarth_ , and they were _Reachmen_.

They'd never been connected with the Forsworn—had frankly never wanted anything to do with the Forsworn—but they were Reachmen, and that was connection enough for the Nords. Never mind the fact that the Nords seemed to think the Reachmen and the Forsworn were one and the same; the Nords also simply couldn't contemplate the idea that any suspicious activity that went on in the city might have been done by one of their own. They needed a scapegoat, and they had a very convenient one.

So here they were. Anton was dead, and they were about to get shafted. For a moment, Voada considered running. But there was no use running. They would catch her. And it would be even worse for her—and for Rodnach—in the end. Best to go along with them, then. Cooperate. If they were very, _very_ lucky, they just might be able to get the Nords to listen.

That was if Rodnach could restrain himself. He always had quite the mouth on him. She shot her brother a warning look, and for once, he seemed to understand.

The order was inevitable. With a sigh, Voada headed out, walking as if she was going to her execution. She probably was.


	19. Balagog gro-Nolob and Hadring

_"Talks real good, though. Not a savage at all. Said he's a writer."_

Whole days would pass by now and he'd have no one to talk to.

Oh, he'd been lonely before. That was a given. Only two regular patrons and both of them valued their privacy highly. The other patrons came infrequently, and they almost always went away within a day. Half of them were just seeking shelter from the cold. It didn't exactly give him ample chance for conversation.

He would try—that was why he always talked so much; he was always throwing some proverbial bait out there and praying desperately someone would be snagged on to it. Evidently, he wasn't very good at it, because it never really worked. The days passed by, slow as molasses, and he generally kept his own company. After all these years, he was beginning to get sick of it.

Sometimes Fultheim would come out of his room and share some of his less than uplifting stories. Hadring had to wonder if it helped him at all; it didn't seem to. Nothing seemed to. They would talk then, and as depressing as the conversation was, it was still _conversation_. He was still interacting with another person. He'd take anything.

Other times, it would be the Orc. He valued his privacy even more than Fultheim did his, and generally preferred to be left to his own devices, but every now and again, he would come up into the main room and share a few words with him. He'd also see him when he came back from his little trips to the lake, but the Orc never said much then. Hadring always wanted to ask what it was he was thinking of, but he respected people's privacy; even if he was lonely, it wasn't his right to interfere.

Still. It was tempting.

But it was on one of those excursions that the Orc had vanished. He'd gone out, not come back in at his normal time, and then simply never returned. Some Stormcloaks had come by that same night and he'd been able to persuade them to report the Orc as missing—with difficulty; it took a great deal of mead and bartering before they agreed—because he could not leave the inn to make the trip necessary to do so. They had been as good as their word; a few days later, he'd had guards in asking about the Orc. He had told them as much as he could, which wasn't much to begin with, and they had agreed to investigate.

They had never found anything. Not even a single clue. The Orc had, to use the common phrase, vanished off the face of the planet. Given the current climate, Hadring imagined he likely knew his fate. Nobody ever said anything, but it was—well—it was obvious. Certainly, Fultheim had got the implication, too. Hadring had found it difficult to sleep in his bed for days, while Fultheim had suffered from nightmares for weeks. He never said anything, and Hadring never asked, but he could only imagine it was one of the bad memories he was trying to forget.

So there they were: one broken man trying to forget his life, and an innkeeper with no other friends, no family, and barely any business. It had been lonely before.

It was lonelier now.


	20. The Decoy and the Penitus Oculatus

_"The Gourmet has killed the Emperor!"_

From the abrupt end of the chaos had come a silence just as terrible. After all that had happened, she couldn't quite deal with it. She backed away, into a corner, shivering and trembling and hugging herself, and tried to look somewhere else—anywhere else. But her eyes were drawn back again and again to the ghastly scene.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and jumped, and then looked up. It was Lieutenant Domitian. "Runa? Are you all right?" he asked, quietly. His tone was serious, but there was a hint of warmth beneath. She wanted to laugh—of course, she wasn't all right. How could she be? But Domitian was her superior officer and he was genuinely concerned, she could tell as much.

So she shook her head. "Not really, no," she admitted, running a hand over his face. Domitian made an understanding sort of noise and tightened his grip on her shoulder a little. She withdrew her hand and looked at him, watching him survey the scene, the other officers cleaning up the mess.

"It's difficult for anyone to witness," he said, "much less a junior officer. Be glad that he was not the real Emperor."

Runa couldn't help but protest. "Maybe not, but he was still a man. Was his life worth any less just because he wasn't—" Her voice broke, and she began to sniffle. Domitian squeezed her shoulder comfortingly.

"He took the same vows as us, to protect the Emperor and give his life for him if need be," he explained. "Make no mistake; he understood the risks and the sacrifice he might have to make. He was not an agreeable man, but he was a brave one. Not many could accept what he had to do."

She nodded, but she must have still looked unsure, because Domitian added, "Think of it like any legionnaire giving his life for the Empire. It's much the same thing."

"I understand that," she said, finally. "But what I don't understand is why someone would… do this… in the first place." She looked nervously at the vomit, at the plate of poisoned food, and then back at Domitian, who looked grim.

"Nobody does at your age. You'll understand when you're older and more experienced."

Runa couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "With due respect, sir, do you think Commander Maro understands?"

Domitian grimaced. "He understands the general principle," he corrected her. "He doesn't understand why it was his son. There's a difference." Runa's mouth twisted.

A split second later, the door opened, and in walked that same man. Runa stiffened and Domitian dropped his hand, and all the officers looked at him. "It's not over yet," he announced, and Runa's stomach plummeted. "The man responsible escaped. We believe he's fleeing back to the Sanctuary. However, since that same Sanctuary is being put to the sword right at this moment…" The words were reassuring, and for the first time, Runa felt a smile creeping on to her face. The expression was echoed on the faces of all those around her.

Well, everyone save for Commander Maro. He did not smile, but there was a sort of satisfaction in his face as he turned to talk to Domitian, a twisted and almost frightening satisfaction. Runa swallowed nervously, and then looked at his eyes.

 _Think he's even fit for duty?_ one of her fellow officers had wondered about Maro earlier. Runa had ignored him at the time, but now she could see what he meant, and she had to wonder the same thing.

The look in his eyes chilled her to the bone. She couldn't read them too deeply, but she didn't see grief, nor indeed even anger, nor any of the other emotions she had been expecting him to display—not even anticipation. No, what he had was the slightly insane look of a man who had absolutely nothing left to lose anymore.

It was awful.

 _Can we trust him when he's in such a state?_ she wondered, shuddering. Maro moved away, and when she was convinced he was out of earshot, she grabbed Domitian's arm.

He looked at her.

"Sir—did you see? His eyes… he looked half-mad to me. Meaning no disrespect, but… can we trust…" She trailed off, nervous, but Domitian thankfully understood.

"Your concerns are justifiable, but don't worry. The officers under his command tell me he's been holding himself together very well. But he needs an outlet and, well…" He shrugged. "That's what it's going to be. Once this bloody business is over with, he'll be free to let it all out. To be honest, if it was _my_ child who was framed and murdered, I'd have the same look."

Runa nodded. "Gaius Maro… do you think he's innocent?"

"Oh, of course," Domitian answered at once. "No denying it. That letter was forged. I don't doubt Maro will get General Tullius and Legate Rikke to testify; it'll probably be his first priority after this is over with." Runa inclined her head.

She watched her fellow officers as they cleaned up and secured the room, and she sighed. This was part of being one of the Penitus Oculatus, she knew… but she'd never expected it to come so soon. All she had to hope was that Maro could put an end to it.

 _Talos guide us,_ she thought instinctively. There was very little else that she could do.


	21. The Emperor and the Crown Prince

_"You and I have a date with destiny. But so it is with assassins and emperors, hmm?"_

There was chaos outside his chambers. He could hear it even through two thick locked doors.

He'd locked himself in. Of course, they'd be coming soon—probably in about five minutes, if not less—and demanding he come out and take the reins, as he was supposed to do. The day he had been prepared for all his life had finally arrived.

Why did it have to arrive like _this_? His father had been assassinated, in Skyrim. The letter had just got back today, penned in General Tullius' unusually shaky hand. He still clutched it in his own hands, and every time he looked at it, he wanted to scream.

He had locked himself in here because he had to. He had needed to get away from everyone and the chaos that had exploded at the news. His father would have said it was not a very princely thing to do, and indeed it wasn't; part of him felt slightly ashamed of himself for having done so. But in these first moments, he was no crown prince: he was just Attrebus, the son and indeed only child of Titus: a son grieving for his murdered father. He needed these moments before he donned the mask of the Emperor.

 _Emperor Attrebus Mede III,_ he thought to himself. _That's what I am. But, Akatosh and Mara and Stendarr and ALL the Divines have mercy, let me be a man and grieve my father first! Please!_ His thoughts were disturbed and unsettled beyond telling; he could not quite put words to the emotions swirling around his head or to the degrees he was experiencing them. Suffice it to say, they were all intense, terribly intense, rather like an inferno, an inferno that threatened to consume everything.

But from the maelstrom, words did eventually emerge: grief. Anger. Terror. Above all, _helplessness_.

He tried to sort through them. Sorting through his emotions, explaining them to himself, had always helped him calm down and think more rationally. It was a technique his father had taught him. So he took a deep breath, and he began to sort through them.

Grief and anger required no explanation. He had loved his father dearly. He had seen a side of him most people either could not see or refused to see: a warmer, more relaxed, more affable side, the one he could afford to show in those rare moments where he did not have to play the part of Emperor. He had spent a great deal of time with him, as his only child and his heir, and so he had seen him as a man and an Emperor both. They had spent many hours talking about his policies, his decisions, the things he had had to do, and everything that went into being an Emperor. He had shown regret for the White-Gold Concordat but had maintained it was necessary, and Attrebus saw his side of the argument. He had accompanied him in everything, been his closest confidant; his father had been almost obsessed with making sure he was fully prepared for ruling. He had loved him, then, as a man and a father, and he had respected and admired him as an Emperor.

 _A man who has troubles so few other Emperors have had, and all they will remember of him is his assassination and the White-Gold Concordat,_ he thought bitterly. _He was a great man. One of the greatest I knew._

Terror and helplessness required little explanation, either. Even if his father had died of natural causes, he was still about to take the reins of the Empire—an Empire that was on the verge of completely falling apart, and would only crumble further with his father's death. With that, it now fell to him to restore everything: to defeat the Thalmor and shatter the White-Gold Concordat, to win back the old provinces by diplomacy or by force, to restore the Empire to its old glory, to repair the reputation of the Mede name. Those were gargantuan tasks indeed, and in the face of them, he felt terrified and powerless.  How could he do all this when he had no experience with ruling, little military experience, and none of his father's talent?

 _Tell me, Father. What am I to do?_ There were tears running down his face, and he was shaking with fear, but he wiped the tears away and did his best to hold himself still. He cast about in his head for what his father might have said.

He found it eventually.

_You must do your duty regardless of your fears. We all must do our duty. You may start inexperienced, but with time, you will learn, and you will grow. Listen to your advisors, but do not be afraid to act on your own initiative. Be cautious, but not overly so. Remember that you will make mistakes. Do not dwell on your mistakes, but act to correct them if you can, and learn from them. Study the old Emperors to see how they ruled, learn what to do and what not to do from them. Being honourable is well and good, but you must strike a balance between honour and pragmatism. Be firm, and tough, and act as though victory is guaranteed, without falling into arrogance, and people will have every confidence in you. When I am newly gone, do not let grief overwhelm you. Present a firm mask, right from the outset, and people will begin to trust you._

There were more words, but those he understood well. His father had repeated them to him often enough, from the time he had been a small boy until they were verily branded in his brain. He knew his father was right in that experience would come with time. What he could do now was put on a mask of firmness and confidence, and not take it off until he was in private.

The chaos was coming down the corridor. Attrebus Mede sighed, rolled his shoulders, and carefully forced all his grief and anger and terror and helplessness back inside him, schooling his face into a neutral expression. He looked at himself in the mirror—a fairly young man of 28, not yet married, black-haired and blue-eyed and fair-skinned, thin and of average height and not at all impressive, which might be to his disadvantage—and he watched himself for a time. The mask held.

He was not ready; he would never be ready. But he had to act as if he was.

He stood up from the bed. He glanced at the letter, and he felt no urge to scream. He headed to the door, movements fluid and confident. He unlocked it, moved outside, shut it behind him. He did the same for the door to his chambers.

The Emperor looked down the corridor. There were several Penitus Oculatus officers and some of the Elder Council just inside, gazing nervously at him. "Your Majesty?" one asked.

"Call the Council," he said firmly. His voice did not shake one bit. He made a sort of gesture as he spoke, a gesture as firm as his voice. "Summon the Grand General, the Penitus Oculatus Commandant, and the ambassadors from all the other provinces. Call anyone and everyone you think is necessary. We will meet in the Elder Council Chambers. Go, now!"

"Yes, Your Majesty!" He could sense—or maybe it was just him—that they all seemed pleased he was being so firm. They head back down the corridor, and he came striding after them, face settling into a rather grim expression. It would do for now.

Later, he would return to his chambers, and he would let the mask off, and he would pray to the Divines and he would grieve and let the terror consume him for a while. But for now, it was time to assume his father's role, and so he must be strong and confident and unshaken. There were terribly dark times ahead—he had never heard of a worse time in history to become Emperor—and they would all rely on him to see them through it.

And by all the Nine, by the Eight and One, he would do it. _I'll do what you never got the chance to, Father,_ Attrebus Mede III thought to himself, stopping the quaver of fear and uncertainty before it had a chance to start. _I'll make this Empire glorious again. Just you wait and see. I swear to you, I'll do it!_

He owed it to him, but most of all, he owed it to the Empire. The Empire would _not_ be broken if he had any say in it. The Empire would rise to its old glory, the glory it had had under Tiber Septim, and neither assassins nor the Thalmor could stop it.

It was time for the wheel to start turning back around.


	22. The Commander and the General

_"Commander Maro is the best the Penitus Oculatus has ever produced. You should be half the man he is."_

Marcus was trembling and crying off to his left.

He would turn his attention to him soon. For the moment, he focused on the dead man in front of him. He believed what he saw; he had never been a man to deny reality. But nevertheless, even he found it difficult to process. _Commander Maro…_ This had been his end? This was what he got?

It was a bitter blow, nearly as bitter as… well. There had been few occasions in his life when he had felt so demoralised. Maro's death was only worsening it. The man had been one of the best Penitus Oculatus officers there were, but on a more personal level, he'd known him most of his life and counted him as one of his few good friends. For him to meet such a ghastly fate as this was…

He couldn't find the right words for it. He shook his head, sighing raggedly. It was better to focus on this than on the Emperor's assassination, at least for the moment. This was simpler, the death of an old friend—not the death of a monarch. And wasn't it a wonderful life when the death of a friend was something he preferred to focus on over the Emperor's death?

But he didn't want to think about the Legion right now, nor about the myriad of consequences that would arise when word got out—were already arising. He needed a bit of calm, a bit of time to prepare himself, before he threw himself into the breach, because once he did, he would not leave said breach for a very long time. None of them would.

He looked at Marcus, staving off his thoughts about how the Empire was now ripe for the taking and whether the rebellion might stir up again after such a terrible blow. Marcus looked at him. He was shivering and hugging himself and crying silently. He would have reached out to him, but affection had never been in him, and they both knew it well. So he watched him and waited.

Marcus spoke first. "He didn't deserve this, sir."

He looked back at Maro. "No. No, he did not."

"Will there be any blame on him for—?" Marcus asked hastily. "It wasn't his fault, sir! He couldn't have known! He tried! He—"

He raised a hand, and Marcus fell silent. "Yes, I know," he said. His voice was tired. "There will be absolutely no blame on him, I am certain. As to his son… clearing his name is not a priority, but when things have calmed down, I will do my best. I owe Maro that much, at least." Maro had been a good friend, and Maro had helped him with Marcus when there'd been no one else there to help. He had been a great man, and a good one. Such a man did not deserve to have his life and family name ruined and then to have his life ended as abruptly and violently as his only child's.

Marcus began to shiver and cry again. Gaius had been a very close friend of his, and his death was Marcus' first experience with personal loss. Maro was his second and in only a few weeks. He had hardly had time to recover from the first blow. Tullius watched him again, as he held himself tightly.

Finally, Marcus looked at Maro's body and spoke again. "I hope people remember him well," he said, voice catching and shaking. "He deserved better. He did his best. He—he—he should have had another chance."

"If only," he said in response. After a pause, he added, rather cautiously, "But I will be honest with you, Marcus. A second chance might have redeemed his family's honour, but Maro? I think, at this point, he'd be happier dead than he would be alive." The words were acid in his mouth, and Marcus jumped as if he'd been burned and looked askance at him. Tullius briefly wondered if he should have said that, but he knew that even if he'd kept it to himself now, he would have said it at some point; he'd never had a filter.

"That's _awful_ , sir," Marcus protested. "But he had—the rest of his family—and the Penitus Oculatus—and the thought of defeating the Thalmor—I mean. He had _so much_."

"Did he?" Marcus frowned, and Tullius elaborated. "His wife's long dead. She was murdered by the Thalmor. His only child's dead. He was murdered, too, and disgraced. His family name's ruined and even if his son's name had been cleared, there would have been plenty of dirt left over on it. He would have had to live with the knowledge that his vengeance failed and the guilt of the Emperor being assassinated on his watch, even if he were never charged for failing in his duties. That never leaves a man. No, Marcus. It _is_ awful, but I think—if he hadn't been got to first…" He raised an eyebrow for Marcus to finish.

"He might have done it himself?"

Tullius nodded.

"Sir! He wouldn't!" Marcus looked frantic, but his expression gradually settled into terrible realisation. He shook his head miserably. Tullius came up to his side with another sigh and put his hand on his shoulder blade.

"You have a lot to learn, Marcus," he said, with uncharacteristic quietness. "You'd best learn quickly. Things will get much worse before they get better."

Marcus nodded and wiped his face, breathing deeply. He still hugged himself, and looked despondently at Maro's body, and then away from it again.

After a while, he asked, "Sir? I was wondering… all these dead people. All these ruined lives, these broken families. All the trauma and the grief and… and everything. All that's going to arise because of this. All the deaths to come… the violence, the chaos. All the blood on their hands. Sir… how do they do it? How do they live with themselves?"

Tullius considered. Then he admitted, looking away from Marcus as he did, "I don't know. I honestly don't know."


End file.
